


One Chat Too Many

by Sand_Cursive



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: AS A PARTNER, Also he has really cute merch, Gen, Marinette is a bigger fangirl than she wants to admit, She just really respects him okay?, platonic friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-19 23:58:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7382731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sand_Cursive/pseuds/Sand_Cursive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marinette has added a new face to her collection, but what will happen when its owner sees the level of her . . . dedication? Marichat platonic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“I can explain!”

She hadn’t even noticed it happening. It had been such a passing — not _obsession_ , oh god, the thought injects red straight up her neck and she slaps her hands reflexively over her cheeks. Too hard, apparently, because the boy in front of her flinches.

“. . . Marinette?”

“Oh! Ha. Ha, ahahahahahaaaaaaa,” the laugh peters out weakly as she fixes her eyes on a point just past his shoulder, staring blankly into the raw glare of the setting sun. She coughs lightly. “I’m. It’s not what it looks like.”

He relaxes immediately against the railing, smile spreading so wide and predatory she can almost imagine a bright yellow feather at the corner of his lips. Marinette can feel the twist of her own mouth, and she fights hard against the impulse to grimace at him. “What does it look like?”

She sighs theatrically and crosses her arms against her chest. “I just don’t want you to get the wrong idea, or anything.”

“Get the wrong idea about what, exactly?”

She can’t look him in his green, green eyes.

“. . . You know what.”

She hadn’t thought it possible for his grin to get even sharper.

Marinette had just been so excited when she got home. The store around the corner had it, the newest, rarest, most enviable item for her collection. The cat-eyed plush toy was short and stumpy and adorable. _Almost criminally soft_ , she’d thought, nuzzling it against one cheek absentmindedly as she snapped a quick photo. She’d had to drop her phone on the bed immediately after, watching it buzz incessantly with a sort of detached satisfaction.

Once it had taken to only vibrating intermittently, she paged back up through the conversation in her group chat.

[4.42] i can’t believe u got it, so unfair

[4.42] If I asked really really nice would you get me one too

[4.42] GRL WERE DID U GET IT

[4.42] I thought those just came out, are u srs?

[4.42] You got one with a good face too.  
How does it feel?  
What’s the quality of the fabric like?

[4.42] Also how’s the stitching?

[4.42]  [photo attachment]  
the face of sum1 crazy jelly

[4.42] thats a pic of a chair

[4.42] that chair is how i feel

[4.43] HOW MUCH $$

[4.43] HOW MUCH?????

Shifting to sit cross-legged on her bedspread (limited edition of 100 for an out of town appreciation convention), she tucked the plush toy under her chin and began the arduous task of formulating replies. She was so focused on the tiny glowing square that the _rap_ made her fumble, dropping both it and the plush to the floor below.

_Oh._ She’d been so surprised to see him knocking at her window that she hadn’t even had the sense of mind to be self-conscious. Well, not immediately. He’d rolled to the floor so gracefully he would have commanded the attention of a full house. And then he stood.

And then he saw.

She’d been so mortified she’d immediately shunted him back out onto her balcony, pressing too close against his chest until his back was flush against the railing. And then she’d choked on her explanation.

“So,” he drawls, drawing her back into this very real, un-imaginary moment. “What, are you like, the president of my fanclub?”

“I’m not the president,” she scoffed.

“So you admit there’s a fanclub? That you’re in?” The tease in his voice is offset by the very visible way his shoulders (and tail) perk at the suggestion.

The stiff set of her face falls away. Chat shifts uneasily against the metal as the silence stretches. She’s standing so, so still, and the silence pricks at his very human ears and he finally dips down to see the glazed look in her eye. “Hello? Princess?”

He waves a hesitant hand in front of her face. “Are you okay?”

“Hmm. Yeah,” she murmurs, swatting his hand away.

His spine snaps back up, feet sliding back out of her personal space. “What are you thinking about?”

Her lip quirks as she gives him a considering once-over. “Whether or not to admit to it.”

“To . . .” His eyes lighten three shades, rounder than the mask should allow. “You. You’re in my fanclub! I have a fanclub? Well, I mean, of course! Of course, a hero of Paris without a fanclub.” The leather of his gloves catches the fading light as he dances, voice dithering in the early evening air. He’s entirely too excited.

She chuckles softly under her breath and he spins back into her orbit, hand on his chin and eyebrows waggling suggestively. “And here I thought I might have a stalker. Well, I can hardly blame you for being so en _chat_ ed,” Chat announces, subtly flexing an arm.

The look on her face suddenly turns coy. “As though I could keep up with one of the heroes of Paris!” She doesn’t miss the blush peeking beneath the edges of his mask, even as he poses casually against the railing. “While I appreciate the dedi _cat_ ion, I must insist you keep your distance if I start running. It wouldn’t do for my _purr_ -incess to find herself in danger.”

Blue eyes turn clear as she watches him try to disguise his bashfulness. _He’s far under appreciated_. Her heart bangs painfully against her ribs and nails curl into the soft flesh of her palm. He’d caught her off-guard, but she’s regained her footing. Marinette’s voice still drops several decibels as she asks, “Do you want to see my collection?”

She can almost see the stars in his eyes as he turns to her, smile uncontrolled. “Really?”

_Silly Chaton._ A soft white hand pulls the door open with a flourish, and she stands to the side, ushering him in to the darkened room.


	2. Chapter 2

He walks in slow, and she follows behind, feeling uncharacteristically nervous to host him in her room. The moon is out now in full force, and she can barely see more than a foot or two beyond the light spilling in through the trapdoor. The leather-clad superhero has disappeared into the dark.

“. . . Chat Noir?” she calls, voice smaller than she’d intended. The dark is unsettling, transforming a familiar haven to an alien place. She puts a hand out uncertainly.

“Oh, sorry Princess.” There’s a sudden flash of bright light, and she squints. For a moment, Marinette thinks she’s still seeing spots, because Chat has twice the ears and tails and bells that he should. _Wait_. . .

“Chat Noir are you seriously wearing your own merch?”

“Oh!” There’s a sudden flush that he tries to disguise with a little spin and flourish. “Sorry, I should have asked first. How do I look though? Dashing? _Purr_ -fect?”

She hides her laughter behind her hand. “It becomes you.”

He laughs too, ever the good sport, and bounds over on whisper-soft boots. The bell comes off, and she flicks it down against the dip in her collarbones as he fastens it for her. “It becomes you too.”

“Thanks,” she smiles, “but I don’t think Paris can handle two Chats.”

He strokes his chin, thoughtfully pretending. “Maybe not, but as a special treat, I can dep _mew_ tize you. Just for tonight of course.”

She clasps her hands together, two parts touched and one part patronizing. “Do you really mean it?” He bows, low at the waist and extends his baton to touch both her shoulders. “Of course,” he says, all seriousness. And then he launches himself right up to her bed, where the bulk of her collection lies.

Marinette walks up to the bed loft, ascending the ladder at a snail’s pace. She can see his tail behind him, lashing itself wildly with excitement. “I didn’t even know they made this much Chat Noir merchandise!” She smiles fondly at him. _He’s like a kid in a toy shop._ Hands are constantly grabbing, sorting, shifting through her mountains of merch, his touch exceedingly gentle.

“The headband is a good look for you,” she muses, not sure which set of ears it is that she reaches up to flick.

“Thanks,” he beams. “I’ve always thought so too. At any rate, I didn’t know they made Chat Noir ones. They’re just like the Ladybug ones.”

“Oooh, do you collect Ladybug merch, Mr. Noir?” She means to tease, but he doesn’t deny it. “Of course! I am her biggest fan, after all!”

His honesty catches her off-guard.

“Oh, you’re much more than that, Chat. You’re her partner. ” Her voice is low enough to let him pretend, and he doesn’t. “Thanks, princess. We do make a good team, don’t we?”

“A _fantastic_ team.”

While he’s distracting himself with the goods, she holds her phone up for a picture. It’s almost surreal to see him, _here_ , surrounded by all these mini toy effigies of himself. It's like having a life-sized collectible, accurate down to the tiniest detail. (This shot is going up on her wall).

“Woah, what is this?”

She’s startled from her screen by the sudden excitement in his voice, cringing visibly when she sees what’s in his hands.

“I didn’t know they made Chat Noir shirts!”

“Well, that —. It’s a very limited edition, I,” Marinette stumbles on her words, critical eye picking out every flaw on the short black tee. It had been her first foray into screen-printing, and she’d thought a silhouette in bright green would keep things simple and neat, but. She gently pressed a hand against the collar, drawing the garment down to hide the smudged profile.

He smirks at her, confidence pumped beyond a hundred. “Is this what you wear to my fanclub meetings?”

“I don’t wear it!” She’s too quick to deny, and too quick to miss the way his shoulders slump at her outburst.  
“I mean,” she starts, gesticulating wildly, “I mean, I. Look, it was my first time, okay, and I thought it would be easy! I mean, the videos on the internet told me it would be. And obviously, I knew I didn’t have all the equipment but —” Her hands are flying in the face of his bewilderment, desperate to communicate what her words refuse to. “It just. And you can’t re-do it, you know, unless you start with a whole new garment, because that stuff does _not_ wash off, and believe me, I tried. And I got that green paint ALL over my favourite pink shirt, which I mean, I guess was my fault for wearing it—”

“Wait.” He holds up a hand for authority. “Wait, are you saying. Did you _make_ this?”

“Yes? I mean, I didn’t make the shirt I just . . . can I call it painting?”

The look on his face is so touched she’s almost surprised not to find tears glinting in the corner of his eyes. “This is amazing!”

The blush overtakes her, sudden and furious. “I. No, I smudged it, pretty badly. Here, and here, and—” She has to stop once he grabs the shirt and tries to tug it over his head. It stops around his elbows (being two sizes too small). “Chat. Chat it won’t fit you, I made that shirt for myself.”

“It’s just the headband,” he grunts out, reaching down to pluck it off his hair. “Here, hold it for me Princess.” He maneuvers it stiffly onto her head, arms locked together in the fabric.

“Chat, you’re going to rip it.”

“Ah.” The disappointment is evident in his face, and he carefully shucks the shirt from his arms. “That’s too bad,” he says softly, and she feels a sudden lurch from her traitorous heart.

“I can . . . I can make you one, if you want,” she offers, suddenly shy.

Marinette can almost see the stars in his eyes. “Really?” A short bob of the head, and the headband comes down across her eyes. He’s too excited to laugh. “Then, can I make a request?”

“Sure.”

“Can I get a red shirt with Ladybug on it?”

She frowns. “There are plenty of Ladybug shirts, you don’t need me to make one.”

“Ah, but none of them have been made by you, Princess.” Damn if flattering her work isn’t a surefire way to get what he wants. _I’m much too easy_ , she thinks, but she blushes anyway. “Then sure.” She fiddles with the hem of her shirt, struck by a sudden inspiration. “Hey, Chat, if I do this for you, will you do me a favor?”

“Name it,” he grins.

“If I gave you something, would you give it to Ladybug for me?”

“Of course! I’d be honored to—.”

“Marinette!” There are steps on the ladder, and Chat scrambles to the loft, settling in her mountain of Chat Noir merchandise and trying to blend in. Not a moment later, Sabine’s head comes poking out through the trapdoor. “It’s getting late. Please go to bed soon. You’ve got school tomorrow!”

“Of course, Mama,” she squeaks, trying to calm the furious panic of her breaths. But her mother simply smiles and nods, retreating as quickly as she came.

“. . . I should probably get going anyway,” a soft voice offers, suddenly much closer to her face than she’d anticipated. She jumps away in surprise, but he’s glancing down at his hand. He smiles up at her and offers a curt bow. “It was wonderful to meet a fan.”

“Ah wait,” she starts, his boot already soft on the windowsill. He turns around, ignoring the dim flashing of his ring. “Princess?” The hesitation is clear in the jerk of her arm, but she holds her phone up anyway. “Can I have a picture?”

He doesn’t think twice. “Of course, Marinette.”

She stiffens suddenly, against the arm that slings itself around her shoulder, blonde hair pressing against a sudden flush. Her name sounds somehow too intimate, coming out of that mouth. But the flash has gone and his arm has disappeared and he’s already halfway out the window when she’s come to her senses. “Thanks for the support, Princess!” he winks, saluting her with two fingers on his brow before vaulting into the sky.

Marinette stares at the open window for a moment before she releases the breath she didn’t realize she’d been holding. A soft chuckle breaks the silence.

“. . . The fanclub is going to go _insane_.”

* * *

 

The night air in Paris is cooler as the months wind down to autumn. Wind whips silky black strands against her jawline, until they are suddenly caught in the clawed leather gloves of a blond, wildly grinning Chat. “My Lady.”

She doesn’t look at him, the bright lights of the city rendering her eyes unreadable in the dark, blurring the edges of her profile. “Chat.”

“I have some exciting news to share.”

“And what’s that?” she asks, catching his wrist until her hair falls back in place.

“I, got to personally make the day of a very lovely member of my fanclub the other day.”

He can see the edges of her soft pink mouth quirking upwards in a smile. “Your fanclub, huh?”

“Oh yes,” he begins, leaning casually against his baton as he pretends to reminisce. “Though I am a mighty hero, I have not forgotten the people who make all of this worth it.” A lean, muscled arm swings out towards the city streets. “And I am wont to abandon them to the cruel world of internet _chat_ rooms and paparazzi to get their fill.”

“Of you, I’m assuming?”

“Well,” he smirks, bowing low with legs crossed. “How could I deny them _this_?”

She laughs then, her shoulders shaking lightly, and he can feel the mask creasing against his smile. “Well, I’m sure your  _fanclub_ is very appreciative.”

“My Lady! You seem doubtful of its existence!” He feints, with a hand against his heart, trying to disguise the hurt threatening to creep into his posture.

Ladybug jumps, finally turning fully, and he can see the whole of her expression, genuine and unfiltered on her face. “Who do you think is the president?”

He knows he’s flushing red, his heart catapulted into his throat as he fumbles against the edge of the roof and tries to decide whether or not she’s joking. “She gave me something for you!” he calls after her, voice stolen by the windy night.

“Hmm?” Ladybug turns, twisting to land on a gabled dormer. He smiles, vaulting to land easily beside her and reaching for the package attached at his waist. The simple brown paper wrapping is tied with twine, and she lifts a brow as she accepts it from his clawed hands. “What’s this?”

“Just a present from a fan.”

She pricks the string with a swipe of his claw, and tears open the the box inside. Then she snorts. “Oh Chat, really?”

He waits, confused, until she drops the box to reveal a short black tee shirt, with his silhouette rendered flawlessly against it in bright green.

“We match,” he whispers reverently, hand going to the pocket where an immaculately folded red tee is tucked.

“What?”

“It’s not from me, I swear.” 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I messed up and posted the first part before it was done. So . . . here's the rest of it? Two short chapters instead of. . . one longer one.  
> I got the idea from @sepulchritude on tumblr (http://sepulchritude.tumblr.com/post/146862680136/i-need-a-marinette-who-noticed-the-lack-of-chat)


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